Latest Dry Martino: Two Wheeler

It is the coolest bicycle I have ever seen. Everyone loves the way it looks. And truthfully, it is one of those images I had conjured up when I thought about my daughter’s first two-wheeled bicycle. The frame is solid and sturdy, painted a sparkled pink color. It has fat, white wall tires covered by stylish fenders that wrap far over the edge of the wheels. Its seat is wide. The handlebars are widely spaced and provide a comfortable spread for her arms, which are still little next to mine but are as long as her whole body was about six years ago. Her hands clutch the thick rubber grips that are adorned at the end with streamers that match the color of the bike. Of course, there is a white basket on the front which has already held pinecones, grass, flowers, her security rag she calls Beary and her helmet when the bike is parked.

It looks like we are going to meet that deadline, too, because in the last couple of weeks it has all started to come together. My little girl is riding a two-wheeled bike.

She has taken a few decent spills, hurt the arm once and has cried about half a dozen times. We have ridden on my sleepy little street and in the parking lot of a nearby middle school. While I’m aware she has her father’s ADD tendencies, I was alarmed at how she would not look ahead at all. I guess seeing the world whiz by that way was too much to pass up, but the novelty seems to be gone. Now she wants to see where she is going.

So last weekend, we really made progress. By progress I mean I found out how hideously un-aerobic I am because she is now riding very fast. Stopping is not a craft she has mastered, but she did figure out how to coast to a stop and put her feet on the ground to keep from slowly tilting over. Until that happened, I was the brakes. 

Memo to self: Don’t run in flip flops anymore.

I sprinted like I haven’t since football camp in Pennsylvania, too many years ago to admit. She would get going, and in some places a small downhill trajectory would propel her to new speeds. Every time that would happen, I would pump and chug to her side, just in case. But I knew I couldn’t keep doing that. She is going to fall. It’s unavoidable. Everyone has to get some bruises.

By the end of the day, she was really moving. I had stopped running after her so much. I was feeling the burn. Plus, she didn’t need me to anymore. And as God is my witness, when she took off on one of the last runs of the day, she yelled to me, “I’m riding a two-wheeler, Daddy! I’m growing up!”

She was reading my mind. 

Visit the Dry Martino column, or follow me on Twitter at drymartino.